


we could waste the night

by capsize (copenhagenborn)



Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Attempt at Humor, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 23:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15568329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copenhagenborn/pseuds/capsize
Summary: Sasha has done a lot of stupid shit in his life. Pretending not to know Russian so Nicke will teach him is not one of them.





	we could waste the night

**Author's Note:**

> dsiclaimer! i know nothing about the Russian language, so please don't put too much thought into whatever Nicke says, thank you!

Sasha bursts through the door to the student centre, sweating and out of breath with his giant hockey bag hanging from limp hands.

It’s late, dark outside and far past the time tutoring usually ends on a Thursday outside of exam season. But hockey practice had run long – Crosby and his inability to acknowledge they were co-captains rather than just Sasha being his A, demanding they do extra drills to catch up on the lack of workouts over the summer – and Sasha always tries to make it back in time to help out those few lost souls who can actually benefit from him speaking Russian instead of resenting him for it.

“Am I too late?” he asks the only other person in the room; a blond tucked away in the corner, head still buried in a book despite Sasha’s crude entrance. There’s a folder of handwritten diagrams to his left and a small mountain of granola bar wrappers on the empty chair next to him making Sasha feel almost bad for interrupting him.

The blond does look up then, sighing heavily as he looks him over with a bored look, glasses crooked on his freckled nose. “Tutoring ended two hours ago,” the man tells, no _informs_ him, sending him another unimpressed look. But he keeps his eyes on Sasha, closing his book and gathering the wrappers as he crosses the room until he’s right in front of Sasha.

And like this, with the man up close and in focus, Sasha can’t help but to admire how he looks.

He’s beautiful – not like Wilson and his rugged, all-around American looks, or PK who can charm the pants off everyone except their starting goalie – but in an odd way that Sasha can’t quite put his finger on. His blond curls are too tightly pushed back with gel that went out of fashion years ago, he’s wearing a loose sweater that makes him look more like one of Sasha’s intro to Maths professors than an undergrad Sasha’s age, his pants are ill-fitting and there’s a stain on his white converse that Sasha really hopes is coffee.

He looks sloppy and stressed all at the same time, and Sasha’s never been more attracted to anyone than he is to this man right now.

“Yes, but I had hockey practice, and Crosby’s a dick-“ the man snorts loudly at that and Sasha grins delighted, ready to go on about Crosby’s idiosyncrasies when he is cut off.

“Look, I don’t do this often, and I don’t have a lot of time, but maybe I can help you out once in a while if nights work better for you.” The man offers, leaning over the nearest table to scribble down what looks to be a name and a number, “I’m not quite fluent, but I can get by well enough.” There’s a weird twang to his words, reminiscent of an accent but not quite strong enough for Sasha to identify it.

But even then, Sasha is nodding before the words even register with him, and by the time he wants to question it, the man is already back across the room packing together the last of things. “So uh, I just call you and then you help me study for Russian?” 

The man walks up to him, now wearing a jean jacket and a soft beanie with a yellow and blue flag on it as he pauses with a hand on the door. “Well it really depends on what course you’re taking and what you need my help for. Like sometimes it’s enough to help someone with their study list, and other times people need a bit of help getting through their assignments. So, think about and send me a text, yes?”

But the guy doesn’t stick around long enough for Sasha to get a word in, already outside and turning on the lights of his bike, making look ridiculous in pitch darkness wearing a helmet and lights in different colours shining from his bike.

Sasha doesn’t know why he sticks around to watch him drive off, but there’s something oddly fond growing in his chest as the man turns the corner and disappears from Sasha’s sight.

 

It’s not until later, when Sasha’s back home and squeezed between Zhenya and young Zhenya on the couch watching reruns of the world cup that he thinks to look at the piece of paper in his pocket.

“Does anyone know Nicklas Backstrom?” He asks causally, pulling the bottle of shitty vodka from Dima’s hands just to occupy them with something other than texting Nicklas to meet up tomorrow.

Zhenya mutters something under his breath, rolling his eyes as he stands, “I’m going to bed, please don’t fuck this Nicklas guy on our shared couch,” he grumbles tiredly, slapping the back of Sasha’s head before leaving the room.

“Is he a fresher?” Dima asks, crawling up to take over Zhenya’s place on the couch before changing the channel to some shit game between teams none of them really cares about.

“No,” Sasha pauses, trying to remember how old Nicklas had look, “Like junior at least, maybe senior? I don’t know.”

Young Zhenya – _Kuzy_ hums, “Isn’t he the football guy? The one who got our funding cut in half because Crosby couldn’t get a word in during arbitration? Swedish yes?” 

Sasha just nods once, already too consumed with this new information because he sure does remember the name Backstrom.

Crosby coming into the locker room red in the face and spluttering that they probably had to cut down on practices and spare rink times, that maybe people could start to pitch in when they broke their sticks during games because the student council had decided to donate half of their money to starting a new program allowing the international students a court to play football on.

Sasha remembers being pissed at Crosby for not letting him come to the meeting, because even if Crosby was more eloquent when speaking English, Sasha had a certain knack for always getting his way. But looking back, Sasha is kind of happy he didn’t have to go toe to toe with Nicklas.

Nicklas who’s the head of the international students’ union but still exclusively hangs out with the other Swedes on campus, refusing to attend any of the union’s events despite spending weeks planning them. Nicklas who had tried out for the team his freshman year and after he was given a spot as their second line centre – back when Zhenya still pretended he could play wing – decided they weren’t competitive enough and therefore not worth his time.

Nicklas who had stared down their dean when he tried to expel Burakovsky for something that wasn’t actually written in the school rule book before telling him to get out, because Nicklas had an exam in the morning and would he mind shutting the door behind him when he left?

Sasha’s only heard the rumours about the last one, stories about the incidents only backed by Andre’s eager insistence and Djoos reluctantly nodding behind him. And Sasha’s never really wanted to be at the other end of a stare down before, but Nicklas kind of makes him want to.

 

It takes a couple of weeks before Sasha finally has time to spare on fake Russian lessons, even for a guy as pretty as Nicklas.

Between his courses and hockey, hosting events for the Russian society and volunteering with the community and then mentoring Sanya who only just arrived from Saint Petersburg, speaking ten words of English but very eager to learn, leaves little time to hit on beautiful Swedes.

He stops by one of the coffee carts on the way back from hockey, grapping a handful of everything just in case Nicklas doesn’t take his coffee back. He thinks about adding one of the pastries that should be 50% by this time of night, but this month has been tight already, and with Kuzy losing his job at the library puts them in a bit of a rough spot for next month’s rent.

Nicklas is pouring over another one of his diagrams when Sasha arrives, a very detailed human eye with descriptions written in three different languages, one of them with what looks to be extra letters.

“Pre-med?” Sasha asks, pulling a chair over to the table he’s sitting at and tucking his hockey bag under it.

Nicklas shakes his head and then hesitates, “Well, I don’t really know. I do like the molecular biology of it, but the practical courses are just a bit too bloody, you know?”

And Sasha does know, remembers the rat he and four others had to share and take turns at trying to locate whatever organ they could remember, using dull scalpels and gloves that snapped too easily considering lunch was their next period.

“So what you wanna do? If not doctor, then biologist? Neurologist?” Sasha doesn’t know other -gists that Nicklas might be interested in, but he would continue if he could.

It works though, Nicklas is laughing and smiling softly as he looks up from where he was circling something in yellow, “No, ah, biology is a bit too, plant-y for me? And I never really cared for the brain, same with the heart and the lungs, and immunology.” Nicklas shrugs like there’s any universe where Sasha is actually following what he’s trying to say. But Sasha appreciates it because Nicklas doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to rattle on to just anyone, “Maybe I’ll just find a job in a lab and try not to look at the bigger picture of what I’m doing.”

There’s a dry kind of humour that makes him laugh, so different from his resting ‘whatever emotion murder translates to the best’ face that Sasha had seen that first night.

“What about you? What’s your major?” Nicky asks after a beat of silence, fingers twitching as he caps the yellow pen and puts it back next to the orange one, all of them neatly lined up in a fancy pen package Sasha has seen some of the European students using.

“Business with a minor in marketing.” Sasha tells him with a smile, “When I have the money or find funding, I want to start a charity and help children. It doesn’t have to be anything specific, but maybe supplying them with hockey equipment would be kinda nice, yes?”

Nicky laughs kindly, “Yeah, that doesn’t sound too bad.”

There’s a beat where they’re just looking at each other, soft smiles and kind eyes as Sasha tries to come up with something else to say, anything to keep Nicky talking.

But Nicky just shakes his head as if to clear it, “We should probably get to the Russian, yeah? I’m okay with speaking it, but the letters kind of catch me off guard sometimes,” he says softly, pushing away the drawing to pull out what looks to be a printed Cyrillic alphabet with parenthesises comparing each letter to a sound from an English word.

“How long have you studied it?” Sasha curiously, fingers running absently over the familiar letters looking so strange printed like this.

“Oh, that’s.” Nicky blushes, red blooming across his pale cheeks, already spotty by the warm summer they’d had, “For a while I wanted to be something in international politics, a diplomat, lawyer maybe. So when the high school I went to offered Russian instead of Spanish as the third language, I just, went for it. It kind of stuck with me. Then I moved here for college and need a language credit, so.”

“So you are Swedish then,” Sasha says, too monotonous to be a question but Nicky nods none the less, “Lots of languages then, Backy, three?”

“Well, I – I know it’s different over here, but we actually have another one during middle school, which makes it like, Swedish, English, French, Russian, and then the conversational Norwegian and Danish, but you know.”

“Tiger is Danish! You know Tiger?” Sasha grins, bumping their shoulders together to make Nicky smile again, and he does, a quiet laugh while he shakes his head.

“I do know Lars, but it’s not like everyone from Scandinavia knows each other.”

“Oh, there’s someone Swedish you don’t know?” Sasha teases softly and watches Nicky flush all over again.

But Sasha gets it, understands the need to be surrounded by what’s familiar, especially when you’re off in another country trying to make it on your own. It’s why Sasha’s in the market for a bigger place, somewhere that can house more than just the four of them and actually let some of the rookies hang out and stay over after a night out.

Nicky clear his throat, soft and sweet before tapping the paper in front of them, “So, how’s your Cyrillic?”

 

Sasha comes home after an excruciatingly long day filled with tutorial upon tutorial in the few core courses he had chosen not to take freshman year.

Zhenya is lying on the couch, one hand under his head and the other one on the remote zapping through channels. He doesn’t even look up as Sasha sits down on his feet, only kicks out his legs before letting out a grunt. “I was going to tell you who stopped by today, but now I don’t feel like it.” He says crossly, exhaling deeply as if Sasha’s entire presence is tiring.

“Oh, Crosby didn’t want to be your lab partner in bio? You’re a communications major, Zhenya, and we took fucking advanced physics as freshers, you don’t need the science credit.” Sasha scoffs, shoving Zhenya’s freakishly long legs until there’s room for him and at least two pillows behind his back, “Besides, it’s my day to cook, so if you want to eat something other than dry toast and burnt eggs, you really should change your mind.”

And Zhenya’s never been good at denying himself anything unless it’s bowlegged and honks too loudly, so he turns dramatically, sighing loudly as he stares at Sasha. “Your Swiss guy came by,” he says finally, looking like he just dropped the bomb of the century.

Sasha frowns and shoves Zhenya again, “I don’t know any Swiss guys, shithead.”

Zhenya shrugs like ‘what do you want me to say?’ “He was definitely Swiss.”

Sasha exhales loudly, ignoring Dima who finally comes out of his room only to hurry back in when he’s grabbed one of the apples Kuzy had been hoarding for himself. “Are you trying to say fucking _Swedish_?”

Zhenya looks thunderous, “ _No_ , fuck you! I got higher marks than you in geography, I’m not some stupid American!”

“Which is why you should know the fucking difference between Switzerland and Sweden! One has beautiful people and free health care and the other has like, good chocolate? I don’t know. Just admit you were trying to say Swedish.”

“He was Swiss, he told me so.” Zhenya says stubbornly, clenching his jaw before he turns back to the reruns playing on the television.

Sasha snorts, “Sure, a real extrovert you are, Zhenya. Talking to both your countrymen _and_ the hockey team you’re on.”

Sasha doesn’t have to look at him to know that Zhenya is fuming, twitching in his seat as he tries not to respond. “Can you at least tell me his name,” Sasha tries again, this time kinder, like placating a rapid dog.

“Nikolaj.” Zhenya spits at him.

“Fuck you!” Sasha laughs unbelievably, “You son of a bitch, see if I talk you up to Crosby now, jerkface.”

Zhenya just grunts, rolling his eyes just as Kuzy comes marching through the front door, shouting in angry English about his shitty advisor. “Language!” Both of them yell at him, making Kuzy stop and switch to Russian instead, repeating his rant word-for-word before turning back to Sasha.

“Your Swede left something for you, by the way.” He says hoarsely, cracking open one of the few bottles of purple Gatorade they still have in their fridge before nodding at the table, “Nicklas is a very good boy, too nice to be teaching you our mother-tongue.”

Sasha glares at Zhenya who’s decided to just ignore him before reaching for the stack of papers on the small table in front of them. Sasha just hums, flicking through what looks to be one of the problems sheets they had pretended to work on during their last study-date.

Nicky is a decent teacher.

His accent is horrible and filled with grammatical errors that Sasha’s dying to correct, but he’s good at explaining things and if Sasha wasn’t already fluent, he’s sure Nicky would be able to get him through at least all of the sophomore courses offered in Russian.

They’re still meeting after hockey practice when the rest of the student centre is empty. And in a way, Sasha feels bad about taking up Nicky’s time when he could be doing something other than teaching Sasha a language he already knows. There’s also the fact that Sasha can no longer volunteer at the student centre without the risk of Nicky finding him out.

So he bullied Kuzy into taking over his hours, convincing the head of the Russian department that Kuzy should get credits towards his teaching degree despite him already having enough credits to graduate next year alongside Sasha.

It’s not really studying anymore though. Neither of them seems too incline to study a language they both already know, Nicky huffing and dragging through the words when he tries to explain something that Sasha already understands, grammar and how it differs from English’s stupid rules and Nicky who keeps mixing it up with the Swede’s excessive usage of commas.

But Sasha doesn’t mind hearing about Nicky and his stupid roommates, Andre who almost burnt down their house trying to make Djoos one of those shake-and-bake cakes for his birthday, Djoos who had come into the smoked-up room and left without a word, only coming back when he needed new shoes for practice. Marcus, who had left DC to pursue a scholarship in New Jersey but still felt like such as big part of Nicky’s life. 

Nicky talking about the guy who sits next to him in neuroscience who won’t shut up when he’s trying to listen to the professor; Nicky ranting about Karlsson and Landeskog who can’t decide which one of them should take over the captaincy when he eventually graduates next year – “It’s nice to know that they care,” Nicky had snorted, but his smile was soft like it always is when he speaks about the Swedes – Nicky falling asleep on Sasha’s shoulder in the middle of explaining the imperative mood, and Sasha sitting there for a hour scrolling through his dying phone until Nicky had woken himself up with a sneeze.

So Sasha doesn’t mind repeating words in a shitty Russian accent if it means Nicky gets a bit of extra time to relax.

He turns the package over and finds an obnoxious pink post-it with neat handwriting on the back, and Sasha is smiling already before he’s finished reading it,

_You forgot these yesterday._

_Got your address from “Tiger”, didn’t want you to miss your deadline,_

_Nicke._

 

They talk about meeting up outside of their study-sessions, something casual and fun that doesn’t happen at the brink of midnight when both of them really should be asleep.

Nicke mentions going to the next international student’s union event, “Don’t worry, it’s open for everyone,” he says with a smile when Sasha stutters a bit too loudly. But Sasha already knows that, has dragged Holtby and Wilson there whenever it’s Russian night, or whatever they called it when the theme is cold and dark, and the only drinks are made of vodka and milk.

The ISU events also happen to be where Sanya goes when he wants to hook up. International students are a lot nicer when your accent is thick and English feels like the worst language in the world, nodding encouraging and ignoring if a verb or a noun slips your mind – they’ve all been there, don’t worry about it. And Sasha knows that if Sanya sees him, there is no way of convincing Nicky to stick around when he has a Russian speaking rookie hanging off his back asking if he wants another shot.

Instead, Sasha suggests going to the Film’s society’s showing of the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo in its original language.

They meet up a little before seven, neither of them invested enough to actually get good seats, but Nicke shows up with a pack of imported beer his brother had brought over during his summer visit, and Sasha has enough snacks for the entire row.

The movie is not great.

Sasha’s usually not a thriller guy, he likes comedy and those cheesy movies where people get together and break-up before finally ending up with their best friend. Thrillers are too much work, requiring too much of him to get the plot despite being advertised as entertainment.

It doesn’t help that the movie is two and a half hours long and in fucking Swedish; and Sasha usually likes Swedish, loves overhearing Nicke talking to his family back home or scold Andre who left the milk out once again without restocking the fridge. Or maybe it’s because people keep shushing him whenever he tries to start a conversation with Nicke, angry huffs and badly concealed complaints even when he’s just asking for the popcorn to be handed over.

When the movie finally ends, it doesn’t look like Nicke is faring much better, droopy eyes and thumbs idly scrolling throughs a group-chat Sasha only understands half of the content of.

So when the end credits start to roll, both of them hurry to their feet, gathering their trash just as someone coughs very loud, “The bathroom break is halfway through the second movie, not yet.” The guy directly behind them says pointedly, nodding to the front where another movie is about to start, _Flickan som lekte med elden_ printed in bold lettering across the screen.

Sasha hesitates, halfway to sitting back down just in case Nicke wants to continue. But Nicke is already up and out of their row, only belatedly turning around to see if Sasha is following him. “Are you coming?” He asks with a crooked smile, accent just the tiniest bit thicker than usual as the Swedish starts back up.

Sasha doesn’t scramble after him but it’s a near thing.

They end up at the quad, just a handful of other people scattered around them and whatever leftovers the cafeteria had at half past nine between them. “I did wonder why it started so early,” Nicky snorts, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb before drying it off in the grass.

Sasha grins, “We can still go back if you want, I’m sure there’s a recap somewhere on the internet.”

“Please, I already wasted almost three hours of my life wishing it would end, no way in hell am I going to spend another five.”

“Nicky! It’s your culture, what would your queen say?”

Nicky rolls his eyes but there’s a wide grin on his lips, “I already fill my Swedish quota listening to Gabe’s ABBA playlist during warm-ups, I don’t need to watch shitty movies to do so. And it’s a king, by the way.”

“Maybe we should have seen Mamma Mia then.” Sasha teases, reaching out to bump their shoulders together, watching just the tiniest bit of red fill out in Nicky’s cheeks. 

“Yeah,” he says gently, catching Sasha’s hand with his own as he gives it a squeeze before he says, “Next time.”

Sasha can’t help the soft laugh that leaves him then, hoarse and sweet and so, so honest.

 

Sasha has slowly been working towards breaking the news of his Russian heritage when Wilson comes running to the student centre at a quarter past eleven.

“Alex, Ovi! Hey, man. I got some homework I need your help for.” Wilson yells as he comes through the door. His hair is still wet from practice and it doesn’t look like he had time to go home before coming here, hockey bag in one hand and a couple of pages in the other one.

Sasha grits his teeth and turns to Nicke with a quick smile before crossing the room, pushing Wilson away until he can whisper-yell at him without Nicke overhearing him. “What the fuck are you doing here? How did you even know I would be here?”

Wilson snorts, pulling out the pen stuck behind his ear and handing it to Sasha who takes it reluctantly so he can fill out the problem sheets, “Please, everyone knows about you and Backy. I’m surprise you haven’t brought him to practice yet, Andre would love that.”

“Why didn’t you do this before? We even had a break between drills.” Sasha grunts, just the tiniest bit frustrated as he looks back at Nicke who’s staring at them with a blank look on his face, showing no signs of recognising Wilson or listening to whatever they’re talking about.

Wilson just huffs, puffing out his chest as he leans back against the door, “I had a plan, okay? It’s not my fault someone had to stay with Crosby and feed his obsessive habits. Besides, it’s Russian, you could do this in your sleep, dude.”

Sasha is shushing him before he’s even done with the sentence, “Shut up! Nicke doesn’t know yet. And that’s not an excuse for not doing your coursework.” Sasha adds grumpily, feeling oddly adult as he flicks through the pages.

“Yeah, but I really need this credit, and Andre is like, 100% sure Nicke already knows. So like, don’t sweat it, bud.”

“What?” Sasha manages to stutter, his throat suddenly hoarse.

“Yeah man, I’m totally flunking Maths, ever since Mike moved away I’ve been falling behind. Russian is the only class that I’m getting above average grades in, and if you want me to stay on the team then-“

Sasha scoffs irritated, glaring at Wilson who looks back at him with wide eyes, “No, that’s no – Nicke knows about he Russian thing?” he elaborates instead, keeping his voice calm as he thrust the package to Wilson.

“Oh? Yeah, that’s what Andre says at least. And like, it’s not really that hard to figure out? You’re very Russian, buddy.” Wilson says with a wide smile, thumping his shoulder as he folds the papers back into his pocket.

Sasha exhales deeply, suddenly feeling more tired than he’s been in years. “Stereotyping is fucking toxic, Whip.” He tells him blandly, nodding to himself as he takes a step back and away from the door, “You’re doing bag skates tomorrow, bring Andre with you.”

“But – he doesn’t play hockey?” Wilson says confused, pausing as he bends down to pick up his bag.

“I don’t fucking care, it’s both of you or you doing it thrice, your fucking choice.” Sasha grunts, watching how quickly Wilson leaves after that, fully filled out work sheet in hand and red cheeks as he rings up Andre.

  
Sasha comes back to the table, walking slowly as he approaches Nicke with a shy smile. “So,  uh – apparently Burakovsky is very friendly with the hockey team?” Sasha says. He tries to sound casual but his voice is too shaky, looking at Nicke’s blank face with too much intensity.

And Nicke, that jerk, just hums as he continues to fill out the holes of the Cyrillic lettering.

“And uh, he might have mentioned that I’m actually from Russia?” Sasha continues, close to dying of shame as he sits down closer to Nicke than he usually would. But, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Nicke snorts, finally looking up with a soft smile, “You know, that hockey team of yours isn’t very inclusive. Nothing but North Americans and Russians, and absolutely no Swedes.”

“Not for a lack of trying,” Sasha reminds him lightly, and Nicke acknowledges that with a nod, frowning like he can’t quite believe Sasha would remember that. “So like, how long have you know?”

Nicke shrugs, leaning back in his chair and making the soft fabric of his sweater stretch over his chest, “I stopped by at your place, and Evgeni tried to speak Russian to me and when I didn’t respond, he got kind of angry and told me to leave.”

Huh, “Zhenya or young Zhenya?” Sasha asks curiously, looking to finally settle his and Zhenya’s argument about Nicke’s visit.

But Nicke lets out a crude noise, “Does it matter? Also I saw your mailbox and ‘Aleksandr Ovetjkin’ does have a very specific ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Sasha concedes easily with a nod.

There’s a moment where they’re both quiet; Nicke tugging at a loose thread in his sleeve as Sasha attempts to count the lashes around his right eye, trying to determine whether Nicke is actually mad about him lying.

He takes a deep breath, putting a smile on his lips and says, “So it wasn’t even my flawless Russian that set you off?” his voice just on the right side of sweet making Nicke laugh softly.

“Nah, it’s.” Nicke says with a blush, “I kind thought you just prepared really well from home so you could impress me.”

Sasha grins delighted at that, “Yes, always very possible, Nicke. Maybe I just learnt Russian to seduce you ´.”

Nicke just shrugs, looking no less flushes than before but there’s no trace of embarrassment on his face, staring Sasha down with determination he hasn’t seen before, “So, are you gonna do anything about it or should I go over declensions again?”

Sasha snorts but wraps his feet around the legs of Nicke’s chair to pull him closer, “Yes Nicke, talk Russian grammar to me.” He says slyly in simplified Russian, just slow enough to make Nicke roll his eyes.

They both lean in halfway, Sasha’s hands in Nicke’s hair as he pulls him closer until he stumbles sideway into Sasha’s lap. Nicke’s breath is hot on his face, small puffs of air before he finally leans in all the way and kisses him.

Everything after that happens in fractions; the slowness Nicke kisses with, firm movements and holding Sasha where he wants him until he can do something but succumb to Nicke’s will. The chapped lips dragging against his, Nicke squeezing him tighter as they pick up the pace, and the tongue teasing him until Sasha is nothing but a puddle on the ground, struggling to play catch up.

There’s a hand on his cheek as they pull back, his lips bruised and red hot as they wander down Nicke’s neck, biting down and making him let out soft sounds that aren’t quite moans, but something close to it.

“So maybe we’ll just hang out at your place next time, yes?” Nicke says breathlessly, his breath hitching slightly.

And Sasha whose teeth are still trying to embed their shape permanently into Nicke’s neck just laughs, nodding eagerly as he lets himself be pulled back in for another kiss.


End file.
